Looking out my Backdoor: Creatures great and small

Though not the least bit dangerous, Argentine Ants win the grand prize for pesky, irritating, prolific and impossible to be squashed with any permanence. You in the North Country don’t have to worry about them. So far they have learned to inhabit only tropical and sub-tropical climes. I say ‘so far’. Adaptable little creatures they are.

They neither bite with fire nor leave welts. They don’t strip entire trees overnight. They don’t chew the furniture.

However, one this moment is traveling along the bottom rim of my reading glasses, left to right, cross over the nose piece, left to right along the other rim, about face and right to left, back again. Cheeky little bugger.

Argentine Ants are year-round, ever-present, and occupy my house. May is our hottest month, smack in the dry season. Argentine Ants particularly like to hang out in the kitchen, on the counters, in the sink, in search of moisture. If, however, I miss wiping a bread crumb off the counter, ants will call in a moving crew and will make short work of it.

I’m vigilant. I scrub assiduously. I keep a spray bottle of vinegar on the counter. Ha! Drops them in their tracks. Despite my efforts, I’ve eaten some, swallowed ants in glasses of water. Small, tasteless, harmless. I try not to think about it.

One of my friends asked me if I thought animals were bolder, now that people are not moving around so much. You know — people off the streets and animals reclaim territory. She recently had spotted a fox and a coyote in her yard.

My theory, and I can roust up a theory for any occasion, is that animals aren’t behaving differently, people are. People in place are not rushing about, focused on getting hither and yon. Consequently, people are noticing critters that are always there. It’s all about focus.

Two days ago I had a lizard in the house, crawling up my screen door. He was a little guy, about seven inches, nose to tail. Lizards are insect eaters, love those flies and mosquitoes and smaller bugs. So I like lizards.

But this guy is not a house lizard, not a gecko, so I escorted him out to the patio. He might have been fine inside, companionable, but I did not enjoy contemplating the possibility he might creep across my face in the night in search of one of those small gray flies or an errant Argentine Ant.

Yesterday I went to the patio to grab my mop. I always flip the mop-head about a bit in case a scorpion has crawled into the long cotton fibers. Out popped a fat pregnant mouse. She’d made a lovely nest in just two days. A shame to disturb her. But along with lizards, I don’t want mice living in my home. I’m not that lonely yet.

Today, while walking along in the shade of the jacaranda trees, thinking about a friend’s grievous situation, I had a clear picture of my dad, with the saddest expression on his face.

Dad’s been gone several years. We have better communication now. He seems to know when I need a visit.

Dad reminded me of a time when I lived in Great Falls. We’d motored out to Wolf Creek Canyon for a family picnic. This was back in the mid-’70s when I made the most disastrous decision of my life. Dad knew he could say no words to help me; he knew that I had to figure it out and save myself.

I had snapped a photo of my dad and that picture reminds me as nothing else can, of the depth of his love for me. “Ah, Dad, I understand now,” I told him.

Resident animals are a great distraction, enabling me to avoid talking about a difficult situation. Somebody close to me, one whom I love, is about to make, or has made, a disastrous decision, guaranteed to bring years of pain.

There is nothing I can do, nothing I can say. I know you know what I mean. It hurts. We all have someone close to us and, helpless to intervene, we have had to watch him or her walk off a cliff. All we can do is love them and hope to help pick up the pieces.

So I distract myself with ants smaller than ground pepper, lizards and mice.

And crows. I seldom see crows in this neck of the woods. Grackles, yes, small blackbirds, yes. Crows, no. Look at those two clowns. In inimitable style, remind me of Heckle and Jeckle, the cartoon magpies, swinging through the branches like acrobats, making me laugh. It helps.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].